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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163282">Melancholy Minds and Spirits</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/raindropfeathers/pseuds/raindropfeathers'>raindropfeathers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen, Insanity, Tim Drake is Not Okay, Tim Drake is Red Robin, you pick which!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:53:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,096</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/raindropfeathers/pseuds/raindropfeathers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The moon was bright in the sky, and big, fat snowflakes drifted in the wind. It was quiet and tranquil, more than Gotham ever should be.</p>
<p> Tim turned his head to the right. A man was next to him, staring out the window.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Melancholy Minds and Spirits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Tim was the first one to notice. </p>
<p>     It started with a tingle in the back of his mind. The snow was falling, and he had just come back from patrol. He had gained himself a small wound in a scuffle between a few thugs and had new stitches as a result of that. Alfred had sent him off to bed, and Bruce had benched him until he had a good night's sleep. He had almost made it to his door at the end of the hall when his feet slowed to a stop. </p>
<p>     Now, if you asked Tim, he didn’t know why he stopped. It might have been the bat-paranoia, but there wasn’t any sense of danger, you see. Well, there was danger, but not to him. It was like Cass, almost. Dangerous, but not to him. Not to Tim. The feet didn’t stop of their own accord, either. It was a conscious decision, but he didn’t know why. Maybe it was his sleep-deprived brain just glitching. Maybe it was the universe’s way of interfering with his life. Either way, Tim had stopped. </p>
<p>     He looked back down the hallway. The lights were dim, but not in a creepy haunted house type of way. There was a chill in the air, from the crack in the window that Jason might have made. The curtains were wide open, which was odd. They were never open at night.</p>
<p>     Tim walked to the window, deciding to close the curtains and go to bed. The curtains were more for show than anything, considering the flimsy black cloth it was made of. The moon was bright in the sky, and big, fat snowflakes drifted in the wind. It was quiet and tranquil, more than Gotham ever should be. </p>
<p>     Tim turned his head to the right. A man was next to him, staring out the window. He was sickly pale and wore a dull blue shirt with a black outline of a bird that looked vaguely familiar. He had black hair, not unlike Tim’s own, and long thick eyelashes. He turned his head towards Tim, showing big, sad blue eyes. </p>
<p>     Tim stepped back. He didn’t say a word, could barely breathe. The man’s bitter blue eyes followed his every move, something almost mournful in his expression. He was sitting on the windowsill, still and silent. The man didn't even breathe. Tim attempted to take another step back from the man, towards the safety of the room, when he stumbled. Him, Tim Drake-Wayne, vigilante extraordinaire, stumbled. Panic flooded his senses, as he reached out to steady himself. The action aggravated his stitches, and pain flared at his side. He took several deep, ragged breaths, trying to control the sudden pain. Once his world stopped burning, he stood up, and the hallway was empty. Tim set his mind towards his bed. </p>
<p>     He had almost made it to his door when he stopped. Now, if you asked Tim, he didn’t know why he stopped. Maybe because his brain hadn’t stopped screaming at him since he came down this hallway, giving off signals of Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. Maybe it was because he felt a sudden chill in the air, and it wasn’t because of the broken window that Harper might have made. Maybe it was because the ghosts in this house just wouldn't rest. Whatever the reason, Tim had stopped. </p>
<p>     He looked back down the hallway. There were portraits of Damian’s art on the walls, as were his photographs. The hardwood floor had many scuff marks and grooves, from their countless fights. There was a chill in the air, from the crack in the window Steph might have made. The curtains were wide open, which was odd. They were never open at night. </p>
<p>     Tim walked to the window, deciding to close the curtains and then go to bed. The curtains had several rips in them, from when Damian might have made the crack in the window. They also had bloodstains on them, from when Duke might have made the crack in the window. The moon was full, but the night was starless because Gotham didn’t have stars. It was deathly still outside, frozen in time. </p>
<p>     Tim closed the curtains and turned back around. A man was watching Tim. He had on black clothes soaked with bright red blood. He was pale, almost sickly looking. He had dark veins creeping up his neck, and hair as dark as the night. Tim blinked, and he had big, sad golden eyes. </p>
<p>     Tim couldn’t breathe. The air was suffocating him, choking him. His feet were encased in stone, big and heavy and hard to move. His heart was pounding in his ears but was drowned out by the silence. </p>
<p>     The man moved, something in his actions hauntingly familiar. He walked a few steps towards Tim, his feet light. His bitter yellow eyes never left Tim’s face, something almost mournful in his gaze. Pure, unbridled fear flowed through his veins, paralyzing him. Tim realized, deep in his mind untouched by panic, that he wasn’t afraid of the man. He was afraid of what made the man. As the man, or was it creature? he certainly didn’t look human, stalked forward, the walls drew Tim further in, trapping him with a sense of helplessness, a sense of foreboding. Darkness grew around his vision as his breathing quickened. </p>
<p>     A crash sounded down the hall, breaking Tim out of his trance, whatever that was. He looked down the hall, towards his room, and noticed the old vase that had been a gift from Mrs. Princemall that they had re-painted and glued back together so many times, was broken. Alfred the cat leaped off of the stand the vase was on, looking satisfied with himself. Good, he should be. That bowl was ugly. </p>
<p>     Tim looked down the hall, closing the curtains that were strangely left open, ignoring the crack in the window that Barbara might have made, and picked up a piece of the doll that had skidded to his feet. He stood up, put the pottery on the stand, and walked to his door. Just before he opened it, he looked back down the hall for some strange reason and noticed the drop of blood on the floor. He looked at his fingers for a second, he didn’t realize he had cut himself. Satisfied that he wasn’t still wearing his Red Robin gloves, he opened the door and laid down on his bed, trying not to think of how he left the curtains open on the window with the crack that he might have made.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have no idea what is happening here. At all.<br/>I'm marking it as complete, but there is a possibility that I might continue it when I have the motivation.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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